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Bancroft. Then I make it to be ten."
    Several strands of Claire's dark hair had fallen forward across her cheek. She brushed them back impatiently, tucking them behind her ear until she could repair the knot that held the rest in place. “I shall endeavor to comport myself as a lady,” she said wryly.
    Rand found himself grinning. It was odd, he thought, watching her. He had not yet revised his first impression of Claire Bancroft, but he was open to the possibility that he might have to. As on the occasion of their first meeting yesterday, she had taken no pains to draw his attention to her appearance. He considered that it might be related to her blindness, but he dismissed that idea almost at once. He doubted she ever gave her appearance more than an afterthought. Someone might have chosen the plain navy-blue day dress for her to wear today, but he suspected her wardrobe was filled with gowns of an equally nondescript nature. She would have had a hand in selecting her new gowns when she returned to England, and apparently practicality ruled the day.
    Perhaps it was the gown's very simplicity that drew Rand's eye to the figure in it, but for whatever reason, he found himself looking at the slender line of her back and shoulders, the curve of a high waist that his hands could span, and the suggestion of legs that went on just about forever. There was nothing remotely mannish about her stride. Claire Bancroft carried herself with casual gracefulness, the slight hesitation in her step her only concession to blindness.
    She found the window bench with the toe of her shoe, then found the window with her hand. She laid a palm flat against one of the panes and felt the coolness of the glass. “Is there still fog outside?"
    Rand rose from his chair and walked over to the narrow rectangular window. “Yes. It looks to be a gray morning and afternoon. How did you know about the fog?"
    "My driver mentioned it when he was helping me into the carriage. He said he didn't think he'd be able to see a thing.” She shrugged lightly. “I offered to drive..."
    Rand laughed. “You have a rather droll sense of humor,” he said.
    "Do I?” She considered the observation seriously for a moment, her wide mouth flattening. A small vertical crease appeared between her dark brows. “I suppose I may be acquiring one,” she said at last.
    Rand was not entirely certain that she wasn't pulling his leg again. Her tone was so arid, it was difficult to tell. “Would you like to sit or continue pacing?"
    Color touched her cheeks. “I believe I will sit,” she said. “I do not intend that you should always rile me so easily."
    "I didn't try to do it earlier.” Rand felt her stiffen as he touched her elbow to guide her onto the bench, but he didn't release her. “I can't promise that I won't do it again."
    Claire removed her arm from his light grasp. She hoped it had not been too obvious that the contact had distressed her. People were never quite certain how to be helpful.
    "I should have asked if my assistance was desired or even needed,” Rand said.
    Claire felt along one edge of the window bench and scooted herself backward a few inches. The direction of his voice told her that Rand Hamilton was no longer standing above her, but was sharing the bench with her. She looked away, toward the window she couldn't see, finding the space suddenly confining. “Yes, thank you. That would be appreciated. I find it disconcerting to be...” She paused, searching for the right word. “To be handled."
    Rand's eyes skimmed her three-quarter profile thoughtfully. Her eyes were so dark a brown that they could almost be black, and the almond shape gave them a faintly exotic look. As if she could feel his appraisal, the color in her cheeks deepened. “Then I'll tell you the next time I'm going to touch you,” he said.
    It was the way he said it, Claire thought, that raised sensations at the back of her neck and sent the parade marching down her spine. For a